


there's still time

by xxSteggie



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: IT'S GAY, M/M, au where the affair never happens, idk how to end it this is my first fic on here bear with me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 20:17:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7771684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxSteggie/pseuds/xxSteggie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't you think, don't you know?!" Dolokhov shouts.</p><p>Anatole doesn't.</p><p>(Or: Anatole realizes some things.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's still time

Dolokhov can't believe that he's made it this far.

With every step down the snowy road, he feels like he is going towards something terrible. Something ruinous. But something—someone—that he loves. (He thinks. If the rush that he gets every time they're together, how hyper-aware he is of everything that he does, or how often he stares are any indication, that's news to him.)

He's reached his destination. He takes a deep breath.

He knocks on Anatole's door.

He has to get himself—and everyone else involved—out of it.

He can't see Anatole get hurt.

He and Anatole have been friends for as long as either of them can remember. They have been next to each other through everything. Dolokhov has been through all of Anatole's crazy schemes. They all end badly.

He can't see Anatole get hurt.

He hears footsteps approaching the door. Inhale.

The door opens. Exhale.

A friendly greeting. A thankful smile from one end of the party. A fake smile from the other.

He steps inside. 

Inhale. Exhale.

He can't see Anatole get hurt. Not again.

He can do this.

Inhale.

Exhale.

* * *

 

"Don't you think, don't you know?!" Dolokhov shouts.

Anatole doesn't.

He is impulsive and demanding, bold and new. He wants what he wants when he wants it. And for the first time, he is confused about what exactly it _is_ that he has been desiring.

For as long as he can remember, he has cared and has been cared for; anyone who he has known for any amount of time knows this. He flaunts it. He flaunts his relationships, no matter how intimate.

The only thing he doesn't flaunt is—well, everything.

No one will ever know how genuinely observant he is. He notices how people look at him, how people talk about him. He notices the small things that his friends do. But mostly, Anatole remembers. He remembers seeing him stare at he and Natasha at the opera, jaw clenched. He remembers how willing he seemed to help with the letter, like he knew how he wrote. He remembers placing his hand over his heart. He remembers the duel and how it felt like he was the one who got shot instead of—

Dolokhov.

It's Dolokhov.

It's the person who has been right by his side for as long as he can remember. Who always looks just right, and who always thinks of the little things. It's a tidal wave of emotions. And Anatole doesn't want any of this. He doesn't want anything but _him_.

It makes sense. It makes _so much_ sense—no one ever feels right to Anatole. No one but him. No one else is there for him through everything. No one but him. No one would go through with helping him as often as he does. No one but him. The realization is a shock to Anatole. He has always loved women, perhaps a little too much. He drowns his feelings in them. And maybe in doing so he got carried away.

The past few days flash before his eyes. The opera (and how aware he was of Dolokhov's leg resting against his), the ball (and the look that Dolokhov gave him while he danced with Natasha), and now this horrid plan (and how Dolokhov tried to seem like he wasn't breaking because of it). It would ruin him. It would ruin her. It was horribly stupid. _Nonsense, nonsense!_ Anatole thinks, and scowls and grimaces; why would anyone want to go through with this?

Upon realizing this, Anatole notices that he has been looking down towards his feet. Glancing up, he is greeted with a worried face.

"Anatole?" Dolokhov asks, his concern evident by his furrowed brows.

* * *

They shoot up at Anatole kisses him.

He doesn't know how to react.

His eyes closed and he leans into the other. His hands are tangled in blonde hair and his heart is soaring and it's happening and oh my _God_.

He feels Anatole's unbuttoned uniform press against him. He feels Anatole's forehead bump against his. He feels Anatole's hand behind his head, keeping it in place as though the blonde doesn't want him to ever leave. Dolokhov doesn't want to leave either.

But he pulls away.

He can't see Anatole get hurt.

He can do this.

Inhale.

Exhale.

"You'd better give it up now," Dolokhov says, panting with a racing heart. His forehead is against Anatole's, their noses touching and their mouths centimeters apart. "While there's still time."

"Y-yeah," Anatole sighs, averting his gaze away from Dolokhov's eyes. He's out of breath too. "Mind writing another letter?"

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this on a plane next to conservative old people can u believe
> 
> come yell with me on tumblr: @ghostquartet


End file.
